


A Sigh of Relief

by neglectedrainbow



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Gen, POV Changes, Panic Attack, Self-harming tendencies, Semi-Canon Compliant, breathing techniques, could be interpreted as zoe/evan, cynthia deserves more love, or just as them being friends, the moms of dear evan hansen, the murphy family being semi-functional
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 02:24:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10710222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neglectedrainbow/pseuds/neglectedrainbow
Summary: Evan has a panic attack at the Murphy household.





	A Sigh of Relief

**Author's Note:**

> based on this prompt submitted by anonymous! **This is a very vague prompt but something sets Evan off and he has a panic attack and it's one or a few of the other characters trying to pull him out of it. Platonic, or at least mostly. It could be Jared who's like familiar with his panic attacks, or the Murphys during canon when he's over at their house and like they've never seen it before and they have no clue what to do, or just something of that nature. Thank you!**
> 
> tw: for detail description of a panic attack

Zoe turns to Evan, a frown across her face. “Are you okay?” she murmurs, her breath low. The older boy has been sitting motionless for some time, his hands clenching and unclenching, pulsating. “Evan,” she says, louder this time, causing her parents to look over at them in concern.

Evan blinks roughly, his eyelids fluttering, “I’m fine,” he whispers, his shoulders curling inward. “Just-may I please be excused?”

He’s up and out of his seat before anyone response, retreating into the living room area. Instantly, Zoe stands up, pushing her chair away, following him. “Evan?” she calls, rounding the corner, her eyes searching the room. 

Evan's breath has begun to come in short gasps, dizziness occupying his body. He stumbles through the house, trying to suppress the feeling of suffocation that's threatening to overwhelm him. He ducks into the guest bathroom, hoping that no one will come after him, that no one will ask him any questions because _why is this happening, why does this always happen, why do you always do this, these meds are working, why is this happening!_

He huddles inside of the guest bathroom, collapsing on the floor as his leg muscles give out. He hunches over, pushing down the nausea that racks at the sides of his stomach. Evan tucks his head down, his knees pressing into the sides of his head, trying to bring himself back down to Earth, to root himself back here in the present, to stabilize it all. 

He can’t breathe. He feels like water is flooding through his lungs as he tries to control the urge to cough and never stop coughing. 

He feels as though he’s in a tunnel, trapped underground, with no light, no escape, only the incessant hum of a car pulsing towards him. Vaguely, he can make out words, but they feel a million miles away, blurred together with everything else. With all these sounds and colors and sights and expressions and- 

A pounding on the door makes him jump, falling forward onto his hands and knees. The sides of his vision are blackened, and everything else appears colorless and dull. 

“Evan?” Zoe tries knocking on the door again, before pressing her ear against the hard wood. She knows it’d be futile to ask if he’s okay. “Evan, what’s going on?” 

Her mother and father appear then, too, their expressions contorted. “What’s happening?” Cynthia puts her ear against the door as well, echoing her daughter, before turning to Zoe. “I can’t hear anything. Larry, I can’t hear anything.” 

Larry tests the doorknob, which refuses to budge. “Zoe?” 

Zoe shakes her head, her breath hitching. “I think he’s having a panic attack. I don’t know, though.” The words come out rough. She just wants to see him, to wrap her arms around him, to comfort him. 

“Why, why would he-” Cynthia starts. 

“I think sometimes they just...happen.” Zoe returns to the door, knocking again. 

Evan flinches away from the loud noise, pressing his hands over his ears. Faintly, Cynthia’s voice makes its way through, and she’s here? They're here? 

“Evan, sweetie, is there anyone we should call, anyone that could help?” 

Evan’s mind immediately races to Jared. Jared, who’s probably seen him have more panic attacks than anyone else, who appeared petrified after he saw one for the first time, which suddenly overtook Evan in the middle of their second sleepover. Jared, who always helps but who always treats him differently afterwards. Jared, who Evan can most certainly not allow into the Murphy household. 

_He could tell everyone everything._

Alana, too, floods his thoughts. She's seen them before; she broke into the boys’ bathroom once during lunch to try and help Evan, but he couldn't accept her help. He can't accept her help. He’s not calling her. And he’s most definitely not calling his mother. 

He shakes his head, back and forth, back and forth, his brain jostling against the sides of his skull, before a dulled part of him realizes that they can’t possibly see him. “No,” he croaks, but it comes out all weirdly, with a harsh sound. 

He doesn’t like to talk during _these_ , because the words never sound right, they get all jumbled up in his brain and his lips and teeth and tongue can’t coordinate so it doesn't work and just makes everything worse. 

Cynthia breathes a sigh of relief. “He can hear us.” 

Larry nods, still clutching his phone in his hands, just in case. “I think he responds to you best.” 

Zoe looks panicked, though, her body hunched. “Are we supposed to just wait this out? We can’t just let him suffer in there, or-or-” 

Cynthia presses back against the door, “Can you let us in, honey? We just want to help.” 

Evan presses his knuckles into his eyes until his entire vision turns black. The Murphy’s. In here. With him. _They’ll see how broken you are, how much of a mess you are, they’ll know why your mom never wants to be around you. This is why everyone always abandons you, Evan, this is why everyone always leave. And they’re gonna know, they’ll find out, and they’ll hate you, they’ll hate you more than you hate yourself._

Larry hears complete silence on the other side of the door, his ears straining, and he tries to open it again, to no avail. “Don’t we have a master key somewhere?” 

Zoe leaps into action, “I’ll get it.” 

“Evan, sweetie,” Cynthia begins, her body contorted with concern. “I’m going to come in and help you. Is that alright?” 

Evan blinks roughly, and he feels bile rise from his stomach. “No! No, no, no, don’t-” His throat constricts, cutting off the rest of the words, and his entire body burns. _It’ll go away, they always go away, just leave me alone, I’ll be find in a few minutes, you don’t need to see this, you don’t need to pretend you care, you don’t need to-_

And they can’t see him because then they’ll tell his mother, who will tell Dr. Sherman. And she’ll will ask him about it, and he’ll say that he had a panic attack at the Murphy’s, and Dr. Sherman will ask who the Murphy’s even are, because Evan has refused to mention them so far, and Evan will start talking about them and he won’t be able to stop talking and Dr. Sherman will figure everything out because she can always tell when Evan is lying, and then she’ll tell Evan’s mother, who will hate him and tell the Murphy’s, who will hate him too, and everything will be ruined. 

“That’s it,” Larry says, his mind replaying Evan’s horrified-sounding protests over and over. “I’m calling someone.” 

Cynthia turns to him. “Who? Who could you call? We don’t even have his mother’s phone number, for Pete’s sake!” 

Zoe reemerges, the master key clutched in her hand. “Mom? Do you want to go in, or should I?” 

“I will.” Cynthia’s voice turns hard, her expression determined. She remembers when Connor was younger and had panic attacks, how she would hold him in her arms like he was a small child again, would clutch her son close to her chest, would count to ten over and over until he began breathing steadily again. For the few years before his death, she knew he had more panic attacks, knew that they maybe even became more frequent. But he never let her help him, seemingly determined to just pretend they never happened altogether. 

She can help, though, she knows how to. If she can see Evan, if she can assess his state... He could have fallen and broken another bone, or hit something and began bleeding, or have passed out altogether due to hyperventilation. 

She normally wouldn’t barge into Evan’s space; she’s spent so much time making sure he feels safe here, feels like no one here is going to hurt him, or hate him, or disrespect him in anyway. 

But he’s not responding anymore, and she can’t hear him breathing on the other side of the door. 

By now, Cynthia is so desperate to make sure he’s awake and breathing to think about leaving him to pull through this on his own. She let her own son suffer all alone too many times, and she isn’t repeating her mistakes. 

She unlocks the door, entering slowly, sending a final look to her daughter and husband before pulling it shut behind her. Then, she turns around. What she sees instantly breaks her heart. 

Evan is huddled on the ground, his chest rising and falling at a rapid rate, his head between his hands, his body wracked with silent sobs. The sight makes her heart constrict, feeling so deeply for this young boy who has unjustly been through so much. She kneels on the ground, noticing a sheen of sweat over Evan’s skin. 

She doesn’t touch him, fearful that such will simply worsen his condition. She whispers, keeping her voice as soft as possible, so as not to scare him, “Evan, darling, it’s Cynthia Murphy.” He doesn’t move. “Zoe and Connor’s mother,” she adds, just in case those names will somehow help him. 

Evan presses away from her, into the cold porcelain of the bathtub, his chest moving rapidly. And she’s here, Cynthia’s here, and she sees him, she sees all of this, sees what a mess she is, and she probably hates him, she’s probably going to leave him and never come back and he's a failure again. 

“I won’t leave you,” she says, and he isn’t sure if he was speaking aloud or if maybe she can just read his mind or just tell. 

He tries to force himself to stop crying, to force himself to count to ten, slowly, carefully, just like Dr. Sherman said, but all that does is make him feel like he’s choking, like he’s suffocating under tons of pressure. “I’m sorry,” he forces out, the words scratching on the edges of his throat, hurting, clawing their way up and out. 

“Don’t be sorry, Evan, just… Just breathe. Okay? Can you breathe with me?” Her voice remains low, unpatronizing. 

Slowly, he forces himself to do just that, to breathe. A flood of oxygen rushes through his mind, and he holds it there, savoring it all, for just a few moments, before exhaling into the ground. His muscles don’t feel as weak anymore, don’t feel as though they’re full of lead anymore. 

“Is there something you normally do?” 

He blinks rapidly, his brain flooded with the thought of Cynthia’s nice pants pressed against the bathroom floor, all because of Evan, Evan, _Evan_ , before the rush of words eventually dissipates and he finally registers the question. He can feel himself coming down. Slowly, but steadily. 

There isn’t something he normally does, despite the fact that Dr. Sherman has been continually telling him to make a plan for situations like this. He just waits. He waits for it to end, just like he waits for everything else to end. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, because his brain can’t form any other words right now. 

She wants to tell him that it’s fine, that he doesn’t need to apologize, but she knows it’s useless, knows it might just make everything worse. So, she doesn’t say any of that, just watches his huddled form as he begins to rise onto his hands and knees, his eyes still trained on the ground. 

Cynthia grabs a clean hand towel, handing it over. Evan takes it, his movements slightly delayed, and rubs it over his face, wiping away the tears he hadn’t realized were falling. “Thank you,” he murmurs, swallowing roughly, and he realizes that she’s still here. Beside him. That Zoe and Larry are just outside the door. For him. Waiting for him. 

He realizes that she hasn’t left him, that she’s still right beside him. He turns to her, to this person who’s never yelled at him, who doesn’t see him as some broken thing. “Thank you,” he repeats, because one time really isn’t enough. 

Cynthia shakes her head, “You don’t need to thank me.” 

She moves to her feet, offering Evan both of her hands. He looks at them for a few seconds, slowly wrapping his fingers around her wrists as she helps pull him to his feet. She moves slowly, making sure he doesn’t collapse again, before opening the bathroom door. Larry and Zoe stand outside, fidgeting nervously, immediately brightening as Evan enters. Zoe rushes forward, stopping just short of pulling Evan into a hug. 

He sees the intense expressions on all of their faces as they watch him closely. _They’re gonna treat you differently now, they know you’re broken, they’re gonna kick you out and hate you and-_

Evan doesn’t think he can go back to dinner, doesn’t think he can handle food. Luckily, Larry seems to recognize this, as he takes a step back, “How about we all go sit down in the living room and put on some music, huh?” 

Larry makes him a cup of tea while Cynthia picks out the music and Zoe grabs a card game. Evan sits down by the edge of the couch, his heart slowly returning to its resting rate. He breathes a sigh of relief. 

**Author's Note:**

> Evan's experiences here are based on my own personal reactions during panic attacks, so it's as accurate as possible. This is set sometime between "You Will Be Found" and "To Break in a Glove," in my mind. Thank you so much for reading, and please, please, please comment below!!


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